


How The Ghosts Stole Halloween

by Sundance201



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Haunted Houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 08:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12526852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sundance201/pseuds/Sundance201
Summary: Sherlock and Molly go searching for a serial killer on Halloween. Or go ghost hunting. It depends on who you ask.





	How The Ghosts Stole Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the X-Files episode "How The Ghosts Stole Christmas," which is one of my favorites. This is the first time that I've tried my hand at anything vaguely creepy, which was a fun experience. Hope you enjoy the Sherlolly spookiness!

“Alright, really Sherlock, what are we doing out here?” Molly asked as she watched the scenery fly by out the window. Sherlock seemed fully focused on the road, but Molly saw his eyes flick over to her briefly. “Is there really a case out here?”

“Of sorts. We’re going to catch a serial killer.”

Molly’s eyes widened. “A serial killer? Sherlock! A girl needs proper warning before she goes to catch a serial killer! Not the type of thing that you just spring on someone.”

“Would you have come if you had known?”

“Probably not!” she sputtered, too flustered to lie.

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “You have to come, Molly. He only kills couples and he only kills on this night.”

Molly looked out the window at the passing signs and retraced the route that they had taken in her head. “Wait a minute…are you taking me to the old Scully estate?”

Sherlock smiled. “Knew you’d catch on.”

“Sherlock, that’s a haunted house! There’s no serial killer there.”

Sherlock slowed the car and turned down a darkened road. It seemed like it had gotten progressively darker – logically, Molly knew it was because they were getting further from the closest village. Sherlock scoffed. “There are no such things as ghosts, Molly. I would expect a woman of science to know that.”

She shrugged. “You know that I believe in ghosts, Sherlock. That doesn’t make me any less scientific. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Does that make you the Prince of Denmark then?”

Molly giggled. “So Shakespeare is worth keeping on the hard drive then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously.” The car slowed to a stop before a large iron gate. There were two big black cars parked alongside the road and a man exited one of them to go and unlock the gate for them. Sherlock waved. “Mycroft’s men. They’re here as backup.”

The large home came into view and Molly gasped. “That somehow isn’t comforting,” she murmured, taking in the decrepit house in front of them. “How are there not a ton of people here? It’s usually a popular destination tonight – ghost hunters wanting to catch a glimpse of the ghosts and the unlucky couple.”

She looked over to Sherlock in time to see him roll his eyes. “I had Mycroft lock down the estate. We have to be the only bait for the killer to chase after. Anyone else would be a distraction.”

“Lovely. And what makes you so sure that it’s a serial killer?”

Sherlock fixed her with a look that would have made the Molly of yesteryear shy away and blush madly. This Molly stared right back, challenging him to explain himself. “There are no such thing as ghosts, Molly. A couple dies here nearly every year…it’s obviously a ritualistic serial killer. And we’re finally going to catch him.”

“So your plan is to just go in there and basically dare a serial killer to come and kill us? Are we just going to sit around and wait for him? Did you at least bring Cluedo to help us pass the time?”

“Very funny, Molly. Obviously we’re not just going to be sitting ducks. We’ll search for him.” He stopped the car and unbuckled his seat belt, twisting to fully look at her for the first time in an hour and a half, since they left London. “Well? Any other imbecilic questions?”

Molly glared and hovered her finger over the seat belt release, as if debating her next action. “Yeah, because going after a serial killer or blood thirsty ghosts on Halloween makes you the sane one.” She released the seat belt, but didn’t make a move to get out of the car. “Just one last thing. Couples die here…we’re not a couple.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Victims are thin on the ground tonight. We’re the only option.” With that, he got out of the car and started towards the house, not looking back to see if she was following.

She grumbled and exited the car as well, jogging to catch up to him. “If we die, I’m going to kill you.”

“Well, as the story goes, there is always one murder and then a suicide. Are you volunteering for the role of murderer?” Molly didn’t dignify that with a response, she just bumped her shoulder against his arm, causing him to stumble slightly.

Molly couldn’t help but feel mounting dread as they approached the house. She could tell that the house was illuminated, but Sherlock handed her a torch as they made their way towards the front door. Sherlock reached out as they approached the door, his hand resting on the doorknob. “Are you ready, Molly?”

“Does it matter? We’re here, aren’t we? Not like you’re just going to turn around,” she mumbled.

“That’s the spirit!” he said jovially and Molly rolled her eyes as he opened the door.

For a moment, Molly couldn’t breathe. The old house was lovely, that was certain. But there was a certain heaviness there, which didn’t surprise her, knowing the sort of things that had gone on in the house.

Something that most people didn’t know about her (although she was sure that Sherlock had deduced it) was that Molly Hooper was a bit of an amateur ghost hunter. She loved a good haunted house and knew all about the old Scully estate. The first murder/suicide incident had been in the late 1800s – the daughter of the owner was betrothed to a man but had loved another. On October 31st, her lover shot her and then himself and in the note that she left behind, she told her father that she’d rather be with her lover forever in death than spend one minute married to another man.

Since then, there had been at least 20 other instances of murder/suicides in the house. They always occurred on October 31st and they always involved a couple. The rate had seemed to pick up in recent years, but Molly guessed that was because the story was publicized more now with the internet and all the various ghost hunting TV shows. People made a special trip out to the estate on October 31st and it showed – there had been murder/suicides on the property for the last five years in a row.

So it didn’t surprise her that the house seemed dark and sad. Dark and sad things had happened there. But none of them seemed to affect Sherlock. He turned to her, a slightly maniacal grin on his face. “Great! Where should we start? Should we split up?”

“No!” The force of Molly’s response must have surprised Sherlock. His eyes widened and he looked like he had his “buffering” face on. “Have you ever even seen a horror movie, Sherlock? Splitting up means almost certain death. It’s like shagging. Both are very bad options in a horror movie, which is basically what we’ve walked into. So no. We are not splitting up. Got it?”

Silently, he nodded. Molly nodded once and looked around the foyer. She tilted her head towards a door on the left. “Let’s start there. We’ll just work through the house until the ghosts find us.”

“Until we find the killer,” Sherlock said dryly, following her towards the door.

She made a face and mocked him silently, safe in the knowledge that he was at her back and couldn’t see her. The door creaked open and Molly shone her flashlight around, stepping cautiously into the room. “Oh for God’s sake, Molly. It’s a tourist destination. There are lights,” she heard from behind her. He flipped the switch and the room lit up.

The furniture was all pristine – it certainly didn’t look like a serial killer’s lair. It did, however, look like a haunted house. Molly pointedly looked back at Sherlock. “Any serial killers about?” Molly called out, smirking.

Sherlock glared at her. “It would serve you right if he popped out from behind that couch right now.” Molly simply stuck her tongue out at him.

“Should we actually take a look around?” Molly asked, stepping further into the room. Sherlock nodded and moved swiftly around the perimeter of the room, while Molly searched around the furniture. “Clear?” Sherlock nodded and made his way back to the front of the room and waited for Molly to join him before they moved out into the main hallway again.

Just then, there was a loud crash from somewhere upstairs and Molly jumped and screamed, clutching Sherlock’s arm. She looked up at him, gratified to see him looking less than put together as he looked up towards the ceiling and then his gaze darted around the rest of the main hallway. “Could have been anything,” he murmured.

“Could’ve been a ghost.”

He rolled his eyes. Molly took a deep breath and relaxed her grip on Sherlock’s arm, sliding her hand down to his and grabbing a hold of it. Sherlock intertwined their fingers and gave her a little squeeze. Molly couldn’t help but smile at the sweet gesture, even as he pulled her towards the next room. The door creaked open again and just before they flicked on the lights, Molly could have sworn she saw something dart across the room.

She gasped and squeezed Sherlock’s hand again, but by the time the room was illuminated, whatever she had seen (or thought she had seen) was gone. “Did you see that?” she whispered.

She heard him swallow. “Yeah. I did.”

Looking up at him, she tried to smile. She was sure it looked more like a grimace. “Tell me you’re not afraid.”

He licked his lips and looked down at her, before heaving a sigh. “I am afraid. But it’s an irrational fear.” He looked around and paused on the door at the far end of the room, presumably leading into the kitchen or servants’ quarters, since they were in the dining room. “Whoever that was couldn’t have gone far. They probably went through that door. I’ll go check it out.”

He made a move towards the door, but Molly tugged him back. “Don’t you dare leave me here,” she hissed.

“I’m just going to see if he’s there.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what Molly assumed was John’s gun.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a gun? Did you bring another one of those?”

He fixed her with a look. “Even if I did have just a spare gun lying around, you don’t know how to shoot, do you? You’d be more of a hazard with one than without.”

She huffed. “But it would have made me feel better since we’re supposedly all alone in this house with a serial killer.” Her grip on his hand loosened and he started moving towards the back of the room.

“Well, look at it this way, if you’re right, it doesn’t matter whether or not we have guns because they’re already dead.”

Molly glared at him. “Shut up.”

He opened up the door and flipped on the light to the small hallway. Molly snuck over to the door, peeking into the hallway behind him. “Stay here,” he murmured.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

“I know.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead briefly before turning and entering the hallway, slowly making his way towards the kitchen.

Suddenly, it felt like something pushed her backwards, away from the door, and it slammed shut. Molly yelped and rushed forward, tugging on the doorknob, but it wouldn’t move. She started pounding on the door, hoping Sherlock could hear her. “Sherlock? Sherlock! The door is jammed!” The door that they had entered through slammed shut as well, making Molly jump. She ran towards the other door, only to find it jammed as well.

“Shit,” she murmured. “Shit, shit, shit.” She ran back to the other door, banging on it again. “Sherlock! I’m locked in here. I can’t get out. Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?” She pressed her ear to the door, hoping to hear any sign of him, but it was useless. She was alone, at least for the time being.

Sighing, she turned her back to the door and looked around the room. The dining table was immaculate, not even a little bit dusty. The place settings looked like antiques – they were gorgeous. And hanging on the wall just to the right of her was a giant portrait – Molly could only imagine that it was the woman from the stories, the one who killed herself to be with her lover.

She was beautiful, but there was something sad and melancholy, even in this portrait. Molly found herself entranced by the portrait, moving closer so she could examine it more. “You poor thing,” she whispered, staring up at the woman.

A few seconds later (or had it been minutes? It was hard to tell), Molly finally took a step back from the portrait and wondered if she should try either of the doors again. She turned and screamed, jumping back.

“Jesus, Sherlock! You nearly gave me a heart attack! How long have you been standing there? Why didn’t you say something?”

His lip curled up in a soft smile but something about it seemed…off. Molly tried to shake the feeling away – it was probably just the adrenaline from his suddenly appearance still coursing through her veins. “I’m sorry, Molly. I didn’t mean to scare you. You just seemed so enchanted by the portrait – I thought you would have heard me come in.”

Molly made her way across the room to where Sherlock was standing, near the door that they had used to enter in the first place. When she got closer, Sherlock held out his hand to her. “Come on, Molly. I found something.”

Without really thinking about it, she took his hand and let him lead her from the room.

* * *

Even with the lights, the servants’ hallway was dimly lit and Sherlock couldn’t help but sigh with relief once he reached the kitchen and the overhead lights illuminated the space. He was glad that Molly wasn’t there to witness his moment of weakness. The kitchen was practically cavernous, with a large island in the middle. Sherlock slowly moved around the space, careful to keep his back to the wall at all times in an attempt to see as much of the room as possible. “Damn it,” he murmured as he completed his survey of the room and lowered his gun.

“He must have escaped somewhere,” he muttered to himself as he made his way towards the door that he assumed led to the main hallway.

Just then, there was a loud BANG. Sherlock broke into a run as he made his way back to the dining room where he had left Molly.

That had been, unmistakably, the sound of a gun firing.

* * *

Molly did think it was a bit strange that Sherlock had foregone the other rooms on the main floor and had led her up a staircase to the private rooms. But she had shrugged it off until this very moment. This moment, when she was standing in front of what was clearly the master bedroom with a huge four-poster bed, and had Sherlock at her back with his hands on her hips and his mouth at her neck.

“Sherlock, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” she gasped, spinning around in his embrace, her hands going to his chest in an attempt to push him away.

“Oh come on, Molly. I’m just giving you what you want. Try and tell me that you haven’t been dreaming of this,” he murmured, leaning forward, clearly aiming to capture her lips. She gave one great shove against his chest, causing him to stumble back.

“This is not what I want, Sherlock,” she said firmly, knowing that he would accept her answer. Sherlock respected her as a friend, even if he didn’t want her as a lover. She’d come to terms with that a long time ago.

That smug smile that she usually found at least somewhat endearing spread across his face, but there was a cold edge to it that she wasn’t used to seeing. “Oh come on, Molly. It’ll be a fun little experiment. Fucking in a haunted house. Didn’t you say that fucking and splitting up were the two ways to guarantee dying in a horror film? We already split up and nothing happened so now we should fuck.”

She shook her head and stuck a hand out in front of her, warding him off as he continued to approach her. “No. This isn’t…what’s going on here, Sherlock? This isn’t you.”

He scoffed. “Oh please, Molly. This is me through and through. Why do you think that I really brought you here? You’re disposable!” He chuckled and the sound made her blood run cold. “I couldn’t risk bringing anyone else here – they’re actually useful to me. But you, sweet little morgue mouse, I could use you as bait and it wouldn’t interrupt the work nearly at all if the serial killer were to get to you first.”

Molly had been moving backwards as Sherlock continued to advance on her and she didn’t realize that she was so close to the bed until the back of her knees hit against it and she fell backwards onto it. Sherlock laughed again as she scrambled to right herself. “You’re not him. I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Sherlock Holmes. He’d never say these things to me,” she said quietly, shaking her head.

He clicked his tongue and tilted his head, giving her a pitying look. “Oh Molly. When will you learn? You’re not important. When I told you that you counted, that you mattered, I was just lying. I was manipulating you. I do it all the time so that you’ll give me what I want.”

She was still shaking her head and even though she tried to stop them, tears started leaking from the corners of her eyes. “It’s not true,” she whispered.

Sherlock pulled the gun from his belt and examined it casually, as if he was bored with this whole scene in front of him. “It is true, unfortunately, Molly dear. You should probably just save the serial killer the trouble and end it now. Maybe the gunshot will catch his attention.” He held the gun out to her and Molly looked at it, dread flooding her body.

* * *

Sherlock ran at a breakneck speed down the hallway and practically threw the door to the dining room open (and a small part of his brain that wasn’t completely focused on finding Molly quietly filed away the fact that the door had been open the last time he saw it). He frantically scanned the room. “Molly? Molly! Where are you?”

He ran around the table and gasped as he came to the opposite end, the one closest to the portrait of the woman. Molly was lying on the ground, bleeding from a wound near her heart. Not enough to kill her instantly, but she’d probably die of blood loss before Mycroft’s men could get inside, let alone before medical help could be attained.

Sherlock collapsed beside her, his hands going to her face. “Molly? Molly, what happened?”

Her eyes fluttered open and they slowly focused on him. “The…the killer,” she whispered. “He was here. He had…that gun.” She feebly raised her arm and pointed to the weapon that he was just now noticing, laying only an arm’s length away. “He shot me, Sherlock. Said he…he…wanted you to find me like this.”

“Molly, I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning down and kissing her forehead over and over again. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I never thought this would happen. I swore to myself that I would protect you. I’d die before I’d let harm come to you.”

She smiled weakly, her lips starting to turn blue and her complexion turning ashy. “A bit too late for that.” She gestured towards the gun again. “But you can join me, Sherlock. There’s still a bullet left. He left it for you.”

She raised her hand and lightly brushed it against his cheek and then ran her fingers over his lips. “I still love you, Sherlock. Even if you don’t love me,” she whispered, before her arm dropped beside her and her body went limp.

“Molly?” Sherlock shook his head, his hand trembling as he sought out her pulse with his fingers. “Molly? Please don’t. Don’t do this. I do love you, Molly. I should have told you. I should have saved you. Oh god. Molly? Please don’t do this. I’m sorry.” He collapsed over her, not caring that he was getting her blood all over him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

* * *

With a yell, Molly shoved past Sherlock, knocking him away from the door and causing him to drop the gun. She watched for just a second as it skittered across the floor and then she was off. She ran out the door and down the hallway, then tore down the stairs. “Sherlock! Where are you? We need to leave NOW!”

She thought she could hear something in the dining room and headed in that direction. That was where this had all started after all, maybe that’s where she would find Sherlock…the real Sherlock.

The noise got louder the closer she got to the room, but she couldn’t see anyone inside. “Sherlock? Sherlock, are you in here?” There was a muffled sob and Molly made her way around the table, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim lighting of the dining room.

There was a figure, huddled in the corner of the room, his knees against his chest and his head buried on top of his knees. It was Sherlock but…he seemed to be crying. Molly approached him carefully, reaching out to lightly touch his shoulder. “Sherlock, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He jerked the second she touched him and sprang to his feet. She noticed immediately that he was holding a gun, because he was aiming it at her. She was willing to forgive him, since she’d startled him, but she started to worry when he kept it trained on her, even after the recognition dawned in his eyes.

She held her hands up and spoke quietly, calmly to him, even though she was feeling far from quiet and calm. “Sherlock, you need to stop pointing that gun at me and we have to get out of here.”

“Where’s Molly?” he asked through gritted teeth, his hand shaking, but the gun never lowering.

“I’m right here, Sherlock. I’m here. It’s me.” Her head was spinning. Had he seen a fake-Molly, just as she had seen a fake-Sherlock? What had happened? What had she done?

His eyes darted around the floor frantically, seeking something out and clearly not finding it. He shook the gun at her and Molly couldn’t help but take a step back. “Where’s Molly?” he bellowed. “She was right here! She had died because of me and she was right here but now she’s gone and you’re here! But you’re not Molly…you’re a hallucination. She was real,” he whispered, his grip on the gun never wavering. “She was real.”

“She wasn’t,” Molly pleaded with him, keeping her hands up in a placating gesture. “Sherlock, it’s this house. I know you don’t believe in it, but it’s haunted. I saw things too…I saw you and you said terrible things to me, but I know it wasn’t you. It wasn’t you.”

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes darting around the room again. “Ghosts don’t exist.”

“Then how do you explain me? If Molly had died and I’m standing in front of you, I would have to be a ghost, wouldn’t I? Or if a ghost had taken my shape and made you believe that I’d died…your run-of-the-mill serial killer couldn’t do that.”

He was slowly lowering the gun and Molly took a deep breath before taking a step forward. His grip on the gun had loosened enough that it seemed like he was barely holding on to it. “That’s…logical,” he murmured, his eyes losing some of the crazed quality that they’d had just a few seconds ago.

“Sherlock, I’m going to touch you now. I need to prove to you that I’m alive. I’m here. Ok?” He nodded minutely and Molly took another step forward before gently grabbing the hand that wasn’t still holding the gun.

The second he felt her, the gun clattered to the ground and with the newly freed hand, he wrapped his fingers around her delicate wrist and took her pulse, feeling the blood rushing through her veins. “Elevated,” he murmured.

“Yeah, a bit stressed,” she replied, with a small quirk of her lips.

“We need to leave,” he said decisively, pulling her towards the door.

“Give the man a medal,” she murmured under her breath, practically breaking into a run with him as they ran out into the main hallway, towards the door.

They burst through the doors of the house and took a deep breath of the crisp, English air, before running all the way to the gates and beyond. Once they were through, Sherlock shouted to Mycroft’s men, “Shut them now! Under no circumstances is anyone to re-enter that house tonight!” They nodded and the gates began to shut, creaking in protest all the way.

Molly started laughing as they watched the gates close and Sherlock looked over at her, probably wondering if she had gone mad from their experience. “Do you believe in ghosts now?”

Sherlock swallowed heavily and considered his words carefully, shooting a look over to Mycroft’s men before answering her, sotto voce. “That was…inexplicable.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. Molly felt a pang of disappointment, but then Sherlock turned fully towards her.

The haunted look on Sherlock’s face made Molly move on instinct. She cupped his cheek, eager to comfort him. He nuzzled against her palm before softly confessing, “I thought you died in my arms. I thought that I had led you into danger and I couldn’t protect you.”

“Well that was bloody dangerous, but I managed to protect myself. I think that…whatever was in there, it fed on your worst fears.” She stroked her thumb across his skin. “But I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here.”

He nodded, before his gaze sharpened slightly. Molly’s hand dropped from his cheek, but he caught it with his own, this thumb rubbing over the top of her hand. “What did you see then?”

She shook her head, looking away briefly. He tugged on her hand and she turned back to him, biting her lip before softly answering. “You tried to seduce me and then you told me that you only brought me along because I was disposable. That I didn’t really matter to you.”

Now Sherlock’s hands were cupping her cheeks, as he stared at her intensely. “That’s not true, Molly.”

She smiled again, this time softer and more content. “I know. But it’s nice to hear you confirm it for me.” Sherlock tugged on her hand and she willingly went into his embrace, relishing the warmth of him as she wrapped her arms around his torso and he nuzzled his cheek against her hair, before gently kissing her cheek.

He pulled back and his eyes seemed to scan her face, reading her reaction to his latest cheek kiss. Molly grinned and went up on her tip toes, her hands tugging down on the lapels of his coat, taking his lips in a kiss. He seemed surprised by her actions for a moment. But the surprise faded quickly, and soon enough he had his arms around her and was returning the kiss fervently.

When they broke apart, he couldn’t help but smile at her. “I’m sorry for ruining Halloween. I know how much you love it.”

Molly giggled, her fingers leaving his coat and traveling up to the back of his neck to tug playfully at his curls. Sherlock groaned. “That’s alright. I think that we’ll figure out a way for you to make it up to me.” Sherlock’s grin was positively wolfish. “It’ll probably involve tiramisu.” The wolfish grin fell slightly.

But Molly’s eyes gleamed and she grinned, her tongue flirtatiously peeking out of her mouth. “Tiramisu, preferably enjoyed while naked in a bed.”

And the naughty grin was back. “Oh Molly, I definitely think that can be arranged.”


End file.
